Mother Love
by Neteret
Summary: The backstory to Horatio Caine's relationship with his mother. Warning: it's not a pretty story.
1. Chapter 1 Born

Under Suspicion and Skeletons gave us clues and hints about Horatio's relationship with his father but how did it all start?

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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Born:

April 1954 – Sacred Heart Hospital, Bronx, New York

Jack Caine had to be practically dragged to the window to view his infant son. The chattering nurse's enthusiasm would have been catching if he'd been sober. They'd called the bar just as he was pulling down his second boilermaker on a dinnerless stomach. The nurse behind the window was doing her best to display the quiet newborn as attractively as possible but there wasn't much she could do with the wizened little thing, so she ended up posing hopefully, as if for a school portrait. Jack pulled deeply on the freshly lit cigarette, squinting behind the stinging smoke and figured he'd better call his mother.

The next morning, his first words to the flame haired Francis Dioletto Caine were, "Ma says he looks like I did when I was born, so I'm guessing it's mine." The flash of puzzled hurt in her bright blue eyes gratified him. "When're you coming home?" He'd finally gotten used to Frannie's cooking.

January, 1955

The city glow from the window was pale in the dark room but plainly showed the still purpling bruising around her eye, especially up close. He couldn't see her fine copper brows frowning, but knew they were and leered down at her.

"Jack, no! We'll wake the baby!"

Looking quickly to the small dark form in the crib, he snarled, "He's so sick he'll sleep through it. I got needs Frannie, so, open up dammit! Jeez! I'm tired of your lip. What should I do, pop ya again?"

Frannie grunted in pain as her young husband viciously stabbed himself into the tight, dry orifice between her legs. Scared because, for once, she wasn't going to commit the mortal sin afterwards, she desperately wished she could enjoy this. A child, after all, should be conceived in love and joy but Jack had taken her by surprise. Yeah, well, when didn't he? Trying not to cry out, she lifted her legs to make herself deeper and larger. Why couldn't he just be nice like he used to be? She looked up at the handsome, Black Irish features hovering over her. How she wished she could see through the dark into his deep blue eyes. Maybe it would feel better, then.

For better or for worse, right? 'You made your bed of roses, so now you get to lie in it, thorns and all' her grandmother had archly chided. 'Honey, you're the one who got pregnant.' Her father had quietly said that as he'd kissed her freckled forehead just before her hurried City Hall marriage. So, she was doing just that, making the best of the thorns, taking him for better or for worse, accepting that if she was 'in for a penny's worth, she was in for a pound'. Having another child was the only way, even if the new one were to be sick like little Jack.

Her mother had counseled last February, "Sweetheart, I know you've been afraid to have another baby, but do you want to lose your man?" Frannie knew her mother was ignoring the bruise on her cheek, the fading greenish ones on her upper arm. "I know hearing today that little Jack ain't going to live another two or three months don't exactly put you in the mood but, honestly, do you think Jack's going to stick around past the funeral, without a kid? You're going to have to make hay while the sun shines, you know?"

The atypically redheaded Italian woman peered through the kitchen door to the sleeping child on the living room couch. At nearly nine months, he was no larger than a four month old.

There was no question between mother and daughter that Frannie had to stay married. After all, a good Italian girl's worth was in being married, right? Yeah, so maybe the bum wasn't worth keeping and all that, but, then, it's the rare man that is. You puts your money down and you takes your chances. Family is everything, right?

"I mean, I know you been doing something to not have more kids, right? I mean, having little Jack didn't hurt you so you can't have more, right?"

Looking into her mother's bright blue eyes, she smiled tiredly, "Mamma, I can have more. I went to a doctor and he put a thing in me. He wanted me to get Jack's permission but I begged, so he did it. I know, it's a sin in the eyes of the church." She looked down at the dregs of the strongly brewed coffee her mother had poured into the last of her fancy company cups and heaved a sigh. Her mother was right on both counts. She didn't want to think that her precious baby was going to die soon. Also, knowing she had to conceive another child or risk being left alone in the world was another thing. Why, oh, why hadn't she left it in God's hands? Had another child as soon as He decided it was right?

&&&

Much to Frannie's relief, she received the news that the rabbit died on little Jack's birthday. Predictably, her husband's face, when she told him, darkened to the point she almost thought that either he was going to either hit her or have a heart attack. Fortunately for her, he did neither. Two days later, little Jack passed away. Unfortunately, Jack disappeared for three days after hearing he was going to be a daddy again and missed his son's death. When he did find out, he went on another bender and had to be dug out of bar just before the interment services. He embarrassed everyone by puking royally in the funeral home's fancy car for the family and then again, when he did it behind some fancy stone angel at the cemetery.

January 1956 - Sacred Heart Hospital, Bronx, New York

Jack Caine stared cold-eyed at the squalling, squirming, red-haired infant in the nurse's arms. Not only was there no doubt it going to live but it was going to be noisy too. And, not a sign of his family features to be seen; just the pale, pasty look of Frannie's so-called Italian family. Who ever heard of redheaded Italians, for Christ sake? First thing, he was going to do was teach the kid to shut up!

Yeah, and then teach him a few other things. Caine's memories recalled the big fat redheaded bully who'd tortured him all through grammar school. Damn! He'd almost forgotten that kid. That was probably because Billy Burke moved away before they'd gotten to high school. At fifteen, Jack had started a growth spurt and by his junior year, he could not only qualify for the basketball team but the football team as well. No one ever bullied him then. He'd have liked nothing better, though, than to have been able to get back at that redhead. So, duty number one with this kid was going to be to teach him who was boss, right off. He wasn't going to let a redhead get the better of him, ever again.

Worse, this kid had already been named! Frannie's pregnancy had made her go peculiar in the head. For the last five months, she'd been reading stupid stuff and had declared that it would be really unlucky to name a boy after him again. She's said that she wanted something really unusual and memorable. If it was a girl, she'd said she was going to name her Ramona after some Indian in some stupid play she'd read about. If it was a boy, the name was going after some fancy, shmancy guy, Horatio.

TBC to Chapter 2

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	2. Chapter 2 The Interrogation

Memories are sparked in our everyday lives by our daily activities.

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

The interrogation:

Lieutenant Horatio Caine calmly returned the young man's glare.

"Why you hatin' on me, man? My mom's dead but you got me in here! Why?"

"Sal, your fingerprints are on your mother's neck." He spoke quietly against the shouts. Looking at the dark attractive features, he noted that Sal's indignation was far larger than his grief.

"You said she wasn't strangled. You trying to fool me?"

His low voice rumbled, "She didn't die of strangulation, Sal, but you knew that. It takes a lot of hate as well as strength to strangle a person. People usually put their hands around someone's throat out of frustration. Mothers can be frustrating sometimes, can't they?" Horatio knew, too well, the truth of that.

"I loved my mother!"

"She was killed between six and seven in the evening. Now Sal, isn't it strange she was dressed in a negligee so early?"

Sal relaxed back into his seat. "She dressed like that sometimes to make me happy. Mamma liked to make me happy."

Horatio's eyebrows twitched at this unexpected revelation. "Happy in what way, Sal?"

Sal smiled, his eyes flicking down to his hands on the table in front of him. "She'd dress up really pretty, sometimes. I mean, man, she was pretty!" He shook his head as if in disbelief. "She liked to dance too. She could really shake her booty when she got going."

Using his most dispassionate tones, "Your mother liked to put on sexy negligees for you?"

"Sure. Sometimes, she'd turn out all the lights and burn a couple of candles. She'd put on some perfume and some cool, sexy music and later we'd…" Sal's eyes closed as he rolled his head around.

A flash of a memory hit Horatio.

"_Amazing, isn't it, that someone like you came out of here." _

_Suddenly it all seemed so wrong! He pushed her off, onto the floor. Rising to his knees, he struggled to control his innards, trying to stop the urge to throw up. Hands on his muscular thighs, he leaned into them, looking, at his mother's contorted face above her nakedness._

"_Baby, what happened? What's wrong with my loverboy? You get a cramp or something?" She awkwardly pulled on the edge of the mattress with one hand, pushing herself up from the floor with the other. The look on her face was not one so much of concern, but of hunger._

_To stop her from rising, he put a hand out. "Can you get me a glass of water? Please! Go get me a glass of water from the kitchen." _

"_Sure, babe. Sure, it'll make you feel better."_

"_And not refrigerator water. That stuff's too cold and it tastes awful! From the tap! Let it run for a bit before filling the glass! I'd like it cool but not that cold stuff."_

_He watched her dimpled butt jiggle as she turned down the hallway. No sooner had she walked out than he leaped up for his jeans. Within seconds, his shirt barely pulled halfway down his lean chest, the laces on his sneakers flopping loose, he was clamoring down the fire escape. He'd barely touched the alley pavement when he heard her voice calling to him. Looking up, he was mortified to see her bare breasts hanging onto the sill._

"_Where are you going, Horatio? I thought you were sick! Come back, baby. Please."_

_He didn't want to yell for her to put some clothes on, fearing he'd be inviting more onlookers than what were probably already seeing her. "I'm okay! I just remembered I got something to do. I'll be back later. You get back inside, okay?"_

"_Please, come back! Get back here! You promised that later you'd watch little Ray while I went to the store to get some dinner."_

_Almost out to the street, he called back over his shoulder, "I'll bring something home, Ma! You rest. You need your rest, Ma. I'll bring something for dinner. I promise."_

_The scent of her lotion on his chest came up through his shirt._

_He ran to the only safe place he knew, the place in back of the church, a small stoop in front of an old doorway. The door no longer existed, was just a bricked up alcove in the wall. Hitting the corner of the alcove at almost full tilt run with his shoulder, he twisted around and looked woefully up to the small patch of bright sky. He slid his back down the rough brickwork, heedless of his skin scraping against the rough mortar._

'_Oh god! Oh God! What had he done?'_

Checking his reflection in the two-way mirror, hoping he hadn't shown any reaction to his suspect, Horatio continued. "Would you mind telling me what happened the other night that made you so frustrated with her, Sal?"

"I wanted to go out; just needed to get away for once, you know? But no! She wanted to dance! I tried to tell her she could go out, anywhere she wanted, and dance six men into the ground. I told her to get dressed! So, she started crying. Then I made the mistake of saying I had a date and she really turned on the waterworks. Damn it!" Sal weakly beat a fist onto the glass top.

Horatio kept his voice level. "I'm wondering if you can tell me about what happened after you tried choking your mother."

"I was just so mad with her, is all. I mean, I just wanted to go out for a while, ya know? I didn't have no date! But no! She wanted to dance and wanted to get me all… She never checked with me, never thought I might have plans and stuff. So she started crying on me and looking a mess! Like I wanted to be with a mess!"

Horatio felt sympathy for the doughboy-soft figure in front of him. The man was twenty-eight and sounded like a thirteen year old.

"So I grabbed at her by the throat! I wanted to kill her. And I tried! I really did, but she just kept looking at me, and coughing, and pulling at my arms and…"

"How did she die?"

The words pouring out of him, Sal looked up to his interrogator for understanding. "She asked me to stab her! That's how! When I let go of her neck, she ran into the kitchen and pulled a big ol' knife out of the drawer. It's what she always does when she gets all hysterical. So, she says 'Here, finish the job! You might as well!' I tried to get past her, just wanted to go out the back door and leave. She kept getting in front of me, blocked the door! I didn't mean it! She wouldn't stop saying, 'kill me, kill me!'" He'd reached a hand out in supplication and then dropped his arm out onto the table and pillowed his head, sobbing. "I didn't know what else to do! Mamma! Help me, Mamma!" His tousled, almost femininely cut dark hair fell attractively about his dark rounded features.

Noticing the lack of tears, sympathy evaporating, Horatio tried to imagine how someone who didn't mean to kill his mother could have stabbed her thirty-two times. He stood back and watched the meltdown.

_The strangely wonderful, strangely terrible incident with his own mother had never reoccurred. She didn't even ever try to enter his room after that, not even to kiss him goodnight at bedtime. _

TBC to Chapter 3

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	3. Chapter 3 The Crime

The exact timing of this is hazy in the episodes, so I took some license.

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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The crime:

"What have we got, Frank?"

Tripp was used to Horatio's sudden appearances on a crime scene. "Looks like a double homicide." He gestured at the bloody figure of an older man on the grass in front of him. "This guy here looks like he was beaten and stabbed multiple times. Dead woman inside the house, beaten to death. Kid over there, says he killed the man, his father."

"Hmm. So, Francis, why are we here? Dead victims and confessed killer don't need forensics."

"Well, the kid 'says' he didn't kill the woman, his mother, that his father beat her down. He 'says' his father turned on him and it was self-defense. He just happened to have the knife on him because he'd just cut some carpet. Frank's derisive tone showed how often he'd heard similar tales and how seldom they were true.

Looking at the bloody figure on the lawn, Horatio was suddenly lost in time:

_He'd, heard the report on the radio in the precinct station. He was filling out a report on a robbery that he'd covered that morning. It was his first robbery as a rookie detective and he was concentrating so hard on filling in all the information, he might have missed it except that he was seated practically next to the speaker._

"_Disturbance at (he heard his parents' address). Report of a woman screaming. See the manager."_

_His mother didn't usually scream when his father went at her so he knew something bad had gone down. Not asking, he took a car and, siren screaming, raced the six blocks through the New York City streets. Twice he drove on the sidewalk to get around traffic, scaring hell out of more than a few pedestrians, arriving at the dilapidated brick front apartment building in record time._

_Not too surprisingly, Jack Caine, in a red spattered tank top, was in the building's narrow entry hall, sitting on the stairs. Seeing his son, he rose unsteadily to his feet and snarled, "I should 'a' known. Don't go up there, boy! You stay away from her."_

"_What'd you do to her this time, old man?" he tried to push his way past._

_His father sneered, "Same as always. Taught her a lesson! And since you're here, you pissy ingrate, I'm going to do the same to you!" He raised the darkly splotched hammer in his hand._

_No time for a warning, before the tool was brought down, the detective pulled his service pistol and fired three times at close range. The force of the bullets drove Mr. Caine backwards, against the wall. He slid down, leaving a bloody smear to join the rest of the stains from years past. _

_Without pausing to check for a pulse, the redhead raced up three flights of stairs and into the open apartment. It wasn't the blood everywhere in the familiar surroundings that sickened him, he'd already gotten used to that after ten years on the police force, but the sight of his mother, gasping and struggling for breath on the floor, did. Her housedress was ripped, hanging half off her shoulders and raised nearly to her bare waist. Her head looked oddly misshapen, partly because her graying hair was matted with blood and partly from skull injuries. Her beaten face was nearly unrecognizable._

_Kneeling beside her, pulling her dress down, he called out, "Ma! I'm here! It's me, Horatio! Hold on Ma!"_

"_Oh, there you are! Honey, I got a sick headache. You take care of baby Ray, until I get better, all right?" She thrashed and writhed and began to spit red saliva._

"_Okay, Ma. Everything's going to be okay!" The coppery smell of the blood was overwhelming._

"_You're my sweetheart. And no excuses now! I didn't just wash and fold your clothes to get your excuses about not having time for your baby brother! And you owe Ray, you know" She became still._

"_Ma! Ma! Hey! Don't do this to me, Ma! Don't you die on me! Ma!" He grabbed for the phone._

_She seemed to recover and gasped, "You're my handsome man. Come give me a kiss and say you love me. You know how I love you." She started to raise her arms to him, but suddenly dropped them, a puzzled look crossing her face, before it fell into repose._

_Knowing it was no longer necessary, Horatio still answered quietly, "I know, Ma. I love you, too."_

_At her funeral, all he could think of was how she'd looked as she'd died._ _The surprised look in her eyes had faded and her pupils had opened wide. It was as if she were seeing him for the first time. What did she see? Was she seeing the disappointing son he'd always feared himself to be? Or was she seeing the replacement for the lover she'd wished her husband had been? He knew he was the replacement for the first son, the one who'd died nine months previous to his own birth. He feared that he'd never been quite what she'd hoped for. Some son, if he had to be protected from his father by the baby brother. She'd often get Ray to distract his father long enough for him to get away, so he could escape from a beating. When he hadn't escaped, Ray was told to play and entertain, to try to get his big brother's mind off of the pain. _

_He looked over and considered his brother's inscrutable stare at the coffin. He wondered what was to come for the guy who'd had so much thrust on him as a small child._

"The kid also smells like alcohol, Horatio."

Returning to the present with an almost imperceptible jerk, "And you want us to do a workup on the scene, Frank?"

"Unless you got something better to do."

"The evidence will decide then, won't it?"

The evidence proved Tripp's skepticism. The teenager, in an alcoholic blackout, had first killed his mother and then had killed his father. To the day of his execution, he denied the charges.

TBC to Chapter 4

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	4. Chapter 4 The Bar

A short chapter. This occurs before '_that day'_.

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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The Bar:

Sitting beside Frank Tripp in the gloom of the bar, Horatio was silently thinking about the day. He toyed with the cup of coffee in front of him as he remembered the woman's words from that morning, making the same demands he'd heard over many years, now, in Miami, and back in New York. The musically Miami-Latin accent interchanged easily in his mind with a Brooklyn/Bronx drawls.

"I know right where he is. My son, the jerk! Go! Get him! Put him in jail! Maybe it'll teach him a lesson! No more of this filth in my house!" The woman had waved the glass bong and other drug paraphernalia in her hands, emphasizing her words.

Whether it was drugs or stolen property or any other illegal items, another mother had come in, turning in another child in as mothers had done, probably for centuries. Too few did this, but the police were always grateful to the ones who did.

"_You going to turn me in, Ma?" He knew he was smirking insolently at her._

"_I ought' a, you thief!" She shook the dress shirt at him. It was two sizes too large, still in its plastic covering with the price tags attached._

_Straddling the broad arm of the sheet covered couch, he tried to look unconcerned. Bending forward, head hanging down, as if to examine the folds of material hanging in front, he said quietly, "Yeah, Ma, sure. You ought' a."_

_He never did know if he was scared she would or afraid she wouldn't. Both of them were sporting red-purple reminders from a few days ago. As usual, his father started on her and when he'd uncharacteristically yelled for the old man to stop, he'd gotten a cracked rib, among other things, for his trouble. He'd probably guessed she wouldn't reveal the horrid little family secret to the cops. Yeah, some secret when every hospital emergency room within six blocks of all the places he lived (moved ten times in fifteen years) knew the causes of the bruises on both of them, the displaced jaws, the defensive bone fractures and so on. This was before doctors were required to report suspected abuse._

_But how else to stop this madness? If she turned him in, even if the bruises were ignored, then, at least, for a while, maybe he'd be safe, for once in his life. He couldn't turn her in for getting beat, that wouldn't make sense. And he sure wouldn't turn in his Dad! Jeez! He might as well just jump off the roof and just end it all that way as do that! Only, if she turned him in for stealing, he'd have a record! Jeez! That wouldn't be too good! Shit!_

_Throwing the package against the wall with a side sweep of her hand, she'd unexpectedly lunged at him, yelling, "What? You want I should steal from you? Maybe I should steal your precious boom box? How'd you like that? Your not so wonderful music tapes? Those god-awful noises by, what is it, those animals, those Pink Floyds? You bum!" She emphasized each sentence with slaps and pushes._

_Hopping from the couch, bending over to protect his rib, his hands up, he'd allowed himself to be driven to the door and then out into the hallway until he hung over the balcony railing._

"_I should tell your father!" She'd lowered her voice, as he knew she would. In the apartment, she'd yell, but the hall was public space and her business was nobody else's._

_He'd also known then, she wasn't going to do anything at all. She wouldn't go to the cops and sure wouldn't say anything to his father. Both of them knew that if his father knew, he might not survive, and that she'd also suffer fallout._

_A week later, he'd gone to the store with the shirt and other items he'd taken and confessed. Not taking legal action, the store demanded he work for them in the stock room for no pay. For two weeks, after school and weekends, he'd cleaned toilets, swept, picked up garbage, and moved boxes. If not for his father, who constantly called to check on him, they'd have hired him. In the end, they'd given him a new shirt, one that fit and a matching tie._

Horatio, personally, never resented the majority of mothers who denied their children's guilt. Tripp, of course, was from the other school, had come from a strict, righteous upbringing, and could never see any reason for a parent to uphold a child's guilt. The two had engaged in many a heated debate over this. Today, Horatio knew, would not be a day for a discussion on a parent's worth or lack there of, between he and the six-foot-four cop.

TBC to Chapter 5

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	5. Chapter 5 The Excuse

Would you refuse, if offered?

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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The excuse:

Of all of the privileges of being who he was, Horatio most enjoyed the one that allowed him to watch the parade of women unloading the bags from the back of the Hummer.

As part of their aide, the Miami Battered Women's Shelter always allowed the ones who were setting out on their own to take their bedding with them. As a result, the shelter was always in need of more bedding. The Miami-Dade police department had made collecting bedding for the shelter part of their regular outreach duties. Every couple of months, Horatio personally emptied the small storage closet, loaded the silver Hummer, and drove to the gate of the protected facility. There, he'd honk the horn three times and be greeted by smiles. Inside the grounds, he'd open the hatch and stand back as the women, learning to be self sufficient in all ways, would joyfully pull the contents out.

"_Ma, honest, a lot of women leave their husbands because they've been beaten. You can leave! There's places you can go."_

"_But, he's been really nice these last couple of weeks, sweetheart. I think he's changed. Your dad, he's like a new man."_

"_Ma, you say that whenever he hasn't smacked you around for a while. Years, he's been doing it to you, Ma, and you know he's going to keep on doing it. He just hasn't been around much this last month! Look, two years on the job and I've seen it, Ma. I've seen the women who have gotten out. They do just fine."_

"_Oh, yeah? Well, maybe I could, at that. You know? Oh, but, well, not today. I'd have to go see what I could get together for me and Ray, to take. You know? Tell you what. Let me see what I can do, and then I'll call you. Okay, baby? We can do it that way. I mean, I'm safe for tonight, I know it, and tomorrow, I'll see what I can do." She reached out and caressed his face._

_He realized she hadn't touched him like that in years. She'd touched him, sure, but usually on his shoulder or his arm, usually through his clothing. Suddenly he was young again, and ignored the odd feeling of deep down discomfort. He looked into her brown eyes across a distance of about eight years and saw she was also experiencing some sort of déjà vu. Ignoring that she was leaning forward in her chair ever so slightly and revealing a little more of her cleavage through her rumpled, scoop necked dress than he'd seen in a while, the young Horatio hauled himself into the now. Smiling weakly at her, he dropped his chin as if to contemplate the coffee in the fancy company cup sitting beside him on the kitchen table. "Okay, Ma. You call me when you're ready. I know a couple of different shelters I can take you to with no notice. Then I'll find a place for you and Ray to live, get you started on a new life, maybe even a better school for Ray."_

_She dropped her hand, looking contrite. "Yeah, sure. That'll be great."_

_A few minutes later, kissing his mother on her forehead at the front door, Horatio's eyes quickly roamed the dingy apartment living room. He knew he wouldn't see the items that had been broken from his father's last rampage because she always picked those up and replaced them with more cheap bric-a-brac. She did it so automatically that, after years of practice, she probably didn't even remember how often she did it. Too often, all she suffered were pushes and non-bruising slaps, so, once she'd cleaned; she had a tendency to forget about it. If there were bruises, it just took longer to forget, was all. He so wanted to be able to point to a mess or a mark and say, 'see, here's what happened, here's proof, now get out while you can.' He inhaled the familiar musty fragrance of her hair and stepped away._

"_Call me tomorrow, Ma? Okay? You promise?" He always extracted the same assurance at each departure. _

"_Sure, sweetheart. I'll do that. I'll call you." She always made it sound so convincing. "Now you get outta here! Go enjoy your day off!"_

"_I am, enjoying it, Ma! I'm here, aren't I?" He put up with being shoved into turning around and pushed out the door._

_Door slammed behind him in mock impatience, not realizing he was listening for the click of the lock, he stood in the dark hallway a moment. Another offer refused. Well, if police work had taught him nothing else, it had shown him that getting women to leave a battering spouse was nearly impossible and that family members were least successful at the task. Maybe next time; God willing that there was a next time._

TBC to Chapter 6

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	6. Chapter 6 The First Time

Ever had one of 'those moments'? I have.

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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His first time, for real:

_One hallmark of abuse is isolation. The victim is kept alone as much as possible. Contact and communication with others is shamed; you don't share private family goings on with anyone! You don't let people know your Dad beats hell out of you because then, they'd ask why and you'd have to admit that maybe you do deserve it because you're as bad as you've been told. If not shame then, just plain threats are used. 'Hurry back or I'll have a reason to beat you.' 'Get there fast or I'll think you stopped off someplace wrong and I'll have a reason to beat you.' '…and if I think what you've done is bad enough, I'll also beat your mother.'_

_For that reason, Horatio never dated girls while he lived at home; he was far too busy, hurrying to school, hurrying back. So, his first date with a girl wasn't until he was nineteen, about six months after he'd left the 'Y', where he'd first gone after leaving home. Living in a studio with a couple of pals, with two jobs, a waiter at a local restaurant and being a box boy at a green grocer, he still had more free time than he'd ever had before._

_At first, he'd just hung out with his buddies, which attracted a lot of attention from the local girls. When they'd gotten wind that the cutest redhead in the neighborhood was finally 'available', they'd nearly trampled him, which made him blush a lot. The girls liked that even more because blushing made the light freckles stand out on his skin like gold stars._

_He was flattered by the feminine attention but, until he'd met Miranda, it was just fun to hang around, to talk with everyone, to be part of the crowd. Suddenly, with her, he wanted to be alone. He wasn't sure why but, oh, man! Did he ever want to be alone with her!_

_It finally happened when her parents went out to a party. She'd promised that they wouldn't be back till late. They were in her darkened living room, sitting on the couch and he was nervous, so very unsure of what to do next. He was trying to make small talk, like he did when they were out in public, when, just like that, she leaned over, lightly put her hand on his chest, and kissed him. Instead of delight, though, he felt awful. He wanted to jump up, wanted to push her away, felt like, well, he didn't know how he felt. All he could do was just sit and smile and ask for a glass of water. He had an urge to run, but not being very clear on his thoughts, he stayed put._

_Returning, with the glass, the outside running wet with condensation, the beautiful girl started chattering. She was almost embarrassed with her behavior, she told him; here she was, stopping him in mid-conversation, trying to get personal, like. After all, what was she thinking? And here he was, probably wanting to wait until maybe they maybe got to know each other a little better, before getting, you know, personal, like. Wow! Wasn't he was just the sweetest, most polite guy she'd ever met?_

_It turned out just as well they hadn't gotten involved that night since her parents returned early, her father having come down with a case of the flu. The parents were greatly pleased to find the two young people behaving themselves and, showing him the door, assured their daughter's visitor he would be welcome to return another time. They didn't catch the especially delighted look their daughter gave to Horatio._

_Afterwards, he'd walked the streets until dawn, wondering what the hell had happened! Was he queer, he wondered? Did he not like girls? Sheez! _

_Thank goodness for him, she was patient and her parents went out to a lot of parties. Six weeks later, he found he was not a homo by any stretch of the imagination. _

It was many years before he had any explanation for his behavior with Miranda. When he did make the connection, it was like an epiphany; every detail of the moment of realization becoming glowingly imprinted in his mind. He remembered what he'd been doing, studying for a final exam for an advanced behavioral psych class; where he'd been, in the library at the Miami University; and when, about 8:30 in the evening. Only a year to go of the schooling that would allow him the leap from police detective to criminalist, he was supposed to be trying to think of some way to remember some statistical data relating to sexual behavior, only his own sexual encounters had crossed his mind. Staring out a window, into the black night, he began recalling. Back and back he'd gone, thinking about the women in his life, back to his very first time with Miranda, and then before that, to that time alone with her, and to his alarm at being kissed.

Thinking on it, his reaction, he knew now, was certainly atypical of a nineteen-year-old male. Turning to newly acquired analytical skills, he mulled over the memory. He remembered how he'd hoped he wouldn't screw up his first evening with a girl, and how suddenly, she'd kissed him. He distinctly remembered being caught with his mouth partially open, felt her lips and then the feeling of her tongue brushing his lips and... Oh God! Suddenly, there'd been explosions illuminating his mind in bright bursts. No wonder he'd frozen like a Popsicle!

Studies forgotten, long legs still stretched out comfortably under the table, left arm wrapped across his waist, he'd propped the right at the elbow at the inside crook of wrist. The knuckle of the forefinger furrowed into the divot under his nose, he'd absently rubbed the back of his thumb across the dark reddish stubble just under his lip. The pupils in his blue eyes were open wide in fascination.

_His six-year-old brother was taking a nap on the couch and he'd had his room to himself, for once. He'd been lying on his bed, looking at a National Geographic. In those days, the nature magazine often contained articles about tribes of foreign lands with pictures of half-naked women. At sixteen, this was as close to nudie mags as he could get. His mother, freshly showered and dressed in a housecoat, had opened the door, as if to tell him something, and, when she'd seen what he was reading, smiled oddly. _

"_Yeah, Ma?" He put the magazine down and uncomfortably lifted one knee, trying to look casual while hiding the slight bulge in his jeans._

_She came in and closed the door behind her. Sitting beside him on the bed, tilting her head to one side, she said coquettishly, "Just saying hello, sweetheart. I can talk with my boy if I want, can't I?" She caressed his face and let her freshly lotioned hand gently slide across the pulse point of his neck and then down the front of his t-shirt, stopping only at the waist. While angling her arm over his raised leg to do this, she twinkled a strange half-smile._

_His eyes, drifted to the goldenrod color of the book at his side, and the only thing he could think was, 'Of all times for her to do this!' Leaning against the pillow at his back, he did his best to maintain the casual appearance. "Yeah, Ma, talk away."_

_For a few minutes, she commented on the beauty of the day and that she was sort of glad he wasn't out enjoying it. Meanwhile, her eyes were flowing over his arms and up his chest and down. Then, as if coming to a decision, she said, "Baby boy, take this shirt off."_

_Unquestioning, the brick top youth leaned forward, which forced him to put his leg down, reached cross-armed at the bottom of the shirt, and pulled it over his head. Making a ball of the material, he did a one-arm toss, basketball style, and threw it in an arc onto the floor. His arms straight, hands on his knees, he looked at his mother as if to say, 'okay, now what?' _

_Making him lean back, her fingers threaded down through the sparse red hairs on his chest, sewing through his ribcage, his belly, and again to the top of his jeans. The Avon scent of the lotion on her hands tickled his nose._

_Then she'd leaned forward and kissed him! Caught with his mouth partially open, in wonder over how her hands were making him feel, he'd felt her tongue brush his lips before advancing deeper. The sensation was indescribable. Suddenly, she wasn't his mother but some exotic princess, perhaps from some unknown land far away, just now revealing her true self to him, her chosen love. He could never remember getting out of his jeans or how she'd undressed; nothing from the kiss to when she'd said. "Amazing, isn't it, that someone like you came out of here." _

_Not that he'd ever forgotten that afternoon; he just hadn't thought about it much. No, that wasn't true; he'd desperately tried to forget. For sure, he'd never thought of what had happened as sex! Now, wasn't that amazing? His swollen penis had entered his mother's vagina, but it wasn't like he'd cum or anything. She'd said what she said and he'd tossed her off before anything could happen. So they hadn't had sex. Right? Only they had. _'_Holy shit!' _

Somehow, the blank view through the library window filled his mind with light. This was truly a revelation!

_A few things changed between them, for a while, but that was all. She was still his Ma; he still gave her the respect she demanded of him, he still left messes for her to clean up, was still grateful when she put ice on his bruises after his father got done with him. Not that she'd ever said anything. Indeed, whenever he came close to her for several months after, she'd done nothing but look uncomfortable, had lowered her gaze from his, and had nervously rubbed at her throat and her chest. Of course, he'd always been afraid to bring it up, himself, and so, over the years, the matter had never been resolved. He was just more careful about tempting her, made sure any kisses were on her cheek, and sure didn't try to be the man of the family when his father was out of the house._

It was no wonder he had few sexual relationships with women, or any sort, for that matter. Even now, as with that first time with Miranda, each time he first kissed a woman, felt that first hesitant brush of tongue in his mouth, he'd, for just a fraction of a second, go into a tailspin. Even now, he even had difficulty just talking with a woman, probably in subconscious fear of what it might lead to.

Why had Ma backed off like that? Because he ran? Because she feared that he'd turn on her, as his father had done? Knowing her, she'd probably been so filled with guilt over the matter, that she couldn't even speak of it. That was the sort of person she was. His heart, again, went out for her. He'd always felt sympathy for his mother but had never quite understood her. Why had she done that with him? Why had she stayed with his father? A sad puzzle.

That strange day had been a long time in coming, he was fairly sure of that. Her motherly caresses at bedtime had become lingering touches; her brief little kisses brought her to leaning into his body as their lips touched. She'd occasionally come into his room, late at night and laid beside him on his bed when his Dad was out getting drunk. Though, he'd pretended to be asleep each time, he'd honestly enjoyed feeling her so close, stroking his cheek, his chest. Then there were the eye connections, subtle at first, which became more than mother-son bonds. They were all sexual acts, though he'd tried to ignore them, sure his body's shameful reactions were his own sin, his fault. Yeah, there'd been a lot of sex and for a long time! Had she thought she'd fallen under her son's spell of attractive looks? Did she think she couldn't help herself? Did she know what she was headed for, leading him to? He had no idea because, most likely, he seldom brought himself to think about it.

For a long time he didn't do much recall of the mess probably because he felt he'd been at fault, had somehow caused her to act like she had. That was part of the abuse syndrome; either implicitly, like his father's accusations of wrongs, or, like his mother, by omission (not talking about it), the perpetrators causes the victims to think the fault is their own. Many even went so far as to insist the victim had 'asked for it', making it sound as if the victim had drawn the hand to hit or to caress.

&&&

"She knew that struggling would get me hot. Then the way she said, 'Oh no, don't,' like she did, which means 'come on, baby, do me!' right? Oh yeah, that was so hot! And feeling her all wiggly under me, all stretched out, I just responded automatically, the way a man does. Good thing I'm a big guy; made it easier to hold her down, and all. Oh, and did I let myself enjoy! She was dee-licious." The young college athlete grinned and licked his lips as if savoring the memory.

Horatio stood outside on the other side of the two-way mirror, watching Eric question the accused, witnessing the process. Only the thrust of his lower jaw declared his distaste for what he was hearing.

The two husky men were sitting across from each other at a table in the interrogation room. Delko had befriended the rapist who obviously felt like he was just jawing with a pal. Like an acolyte at the feet of a master, Eric reverently asked, "You mean, no matter what the woman says, no matter how she acts, she's saying you can have sex with her?"

"Hey, she'd gotten down on the blanket with me, didn't she?"

"You guys were out on a date, a moonlight picnic. What was she supposed to do?"

"Yeah! That's how you work it. You see?"

"And you kissed, and cuddled a little, right?"

"Heh, oh yeah." He wiped his hand across his mouth.

"And you tried a little tongue, and liked it, right?"

"Tasted so good."

"Only, did she tongue you back? Or did she try to, like, pull away?"

The change in Delko's tone brought a defensive reply, "No! She didn't try to pull away."

The police detective persisted, "You were like halfway on top of her already, right? So maybe she couldn't pull away, right? So, she didn't move away and couldn't say anything because you had your tongue down her throat already, so she must have wanted more, right?"

A helpless look moved the gray eyes nervously back and forth. Horatio could tell the kid had honestly never considered what he'd done as not being part of mutual consent.

"You said before that she'd thrown her hands up above her to stretch herself out for you, right? She probably moved her hands above her head on her own, because that was about the only place she could put them that wouldn't be touching you. Ever think about that? That's why it made it easier for you to reach up and hold her arms back."

Horatio tensed as Eric rose to crouch over the table. He could see that familiar, murderous look of outrage growing in his colleague's well-deep brown eyes. "You just said it was a good thing you're a big guy because otherwise her struggling would have made your enjoyment harder. Ever ask why she'd struggle if she wanted it? Ever think that a woman who wants it might make it easier for you, not harder?"

He feebly objected, "But, she acted so damned sexy! She pushed me to the point of no return! I couldn't help myself. And, saying no is part of the game. Everyone knows that."

"You jerk! If she wanted to play a game with you, she'd have brought a Parcheesi set! You really like women who play games? If a woman says no and doesn't mean it, let her suffer!" He pushed his face to within an inch of the athlete's nose.

The kid leaned backwards against Eric's disgust. "But I thought—"

Eric stood and headed for the door. "No man, that's the problem, you didn't think." He looked ill as he left the room.

The same remarks, repeated many times over the years, by people who, time and again, excused the inexcusable by blaming the victim. Each time, Horatio thought of what his mother had done. Though different in this case, it was the same, she'd had sex with a partner who hadn't quite realized what he was getting in for. Mutual consent is only when both parties have a commonly understood goal.

He knew that he was still trying to deal with the feeling of betrayal. Over the years, many times, he'd awakened from disturbing wet dreams. Each time, with her in his arms, he'd nightmarishly reach culmination. At first, she was the thirty-nine or forty she was that one afternoon, and then she was the graying, bloody headed person gasping her last. Each time, he knew it was so, so wrong! But he wanted to please her, to do it right this time. Every time, just as he exploded, his father would rip her from his grasp and he'd suddenly wake up in a sweat, breathing hard, reaching into the darkness, a cry on his lips.

TBC to Chapter 7

Thank you, dear readers.


	7. Chapter 7 The Explanation

We're always seeking to answer our own questions, aren't we?

CSI: Miami

Horatio/oc

Disclaimer: I own nothing of CSI: Miami, I do not know anyone connected with the show or with CBS and they do not know me, all of which is a shame.

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Trying to explain:

Horatio addressed the youngster sitting outside of the interrogation room. "Hi there, partner. My name is Horatio Caine. What's yours?"

"Tony." The afternoon light dressed warm colors over the dejected twelve-year-old's back.

He sat beside the boy and leaned forward, his elbows on his legs, and pretended to examine his hands.

"You're the cop who's arrested my mamma. You're going to take her away."

"Do you know why I have to do that?"

"Because those CPS people told you to. They're wrong! She's a good mamma and I love her."

"I know you love her, Tony, but you know what, son, your mom is being arrested for having drugs and for selling them." This was true, but they'd found out about her drug dealing only after CPS had come to him. They'd had accusations from her fellow street people that she'd been sexually abusing her son. The homeless put up with drugs on the streets, murder, and prostitution too, but not this.

"I don't need those CPS people to take me away. I'd be okay with my mamma. I can stay with her, sleep on the floor in the jail place."

Well, even if that could be allowed, we can't let you stay with her for other reasons."

"But I'll be good! I'll take care of her better!"

"Well, I know you'd try, but that's not the way it's supposed to work. Your mother is supposed to take care of you. You know?"

"But she did! She brought me food whenever she could and sometimes even stole me clothes to wear! She did as good as she could! I was fine!"

Horatio winced. "Tony, you're a smart man; is that the way a mother is supposed to take care of you?"

"But she loved me! Don't they say love is enough?"

He looked away from the slumped figure, wondering what he could say to ease the child's misery.

Horatio knew that, eventually, Tony might realize that though his mother may have 'done her best', most of the time, that didn't make the rest of it right. From the pallor of his skin, the way he sat, he knew the child also suffered from malnutrition. That, he'd no doubt forgive, but what about the rest? What would Tony do when he realized that even mothers could exploit love for their own use, could take, and not give, could talk themselves into thinking they were enjoying with, not at the expense of the other? That, some mothers (not, as the rumor had it, only male sexual abusers) were often specialists at such exploitation? What would he do when he realized, his mother hadn't acted like a mother?

While he looked between his outstretched fingers, Horatio let his unusually wide field of vision take in the child next to him. Since the boy so obviously felt some sort of pressure to 'take care of' his mom, he wondered what Tony's mother had done to deflect her responsibility onto her son? Too early, too early for such burdens.

His thoughts went to his brother. _Oh, Ma! If only you'd seen how Ray had turned out. 'If you don't go through the phases of life at the appropriate age', as Gail Sheehy had written in her book "Passages", 'then you'll surely go through them later in life.' If that is so,' _he'd often mused, '_couldn't it also be that if you go through a phase too early, then you'll ignore the lessons you should be able to understand later, at the right time? Wasn't that what happened to Ray? Being made to feel responsible, being told to protect the older brother, at four years old, may somehow have taken the edge from his ability to take responsibility at the right age. Perhaps that had been precursory to his falling into drugs and cheating on Yelina, later on._

A moment later, he nodded to the agent from Child Protective Services and, wishing the boy well, waved goodbye. Watching Tony look wistfully at his mother as he followed behind the agent, Horatio's hands automatically rose to his hips.

Speculating on Tony's future, he remembered that night, back in the library and how he'd come to terms with history. Even then, knowing what he did about the law, about the modern attitudes of what abuse was, after putting it all together, he'd felt no animosity towards his mother, no disgust at what she'd done. And now, although, he knew his mother's sexual acts with him were abuse of the worst sort, he still couldn't wrap his head around it entirely. In spite of his training and knowing the damage that sexual abuse could do, somehow, he'd always managed to separate that out from everything else about her. Maybe it was because the idea of sex being the cause of motherhood and yet mothers as sexual beings was so dichotomous. Then there was the idea that a mother is supposed to raise her son to be a man, to appreciate women as sexual beings, but she can't allow him to appreciate her as one. Hell of a feat to pull off.

He always came back to the same conclusion: His mother had abused him six ways from Sunday. She'd made sure he respected motherhood by making sure he knew where he came from, that he was grateful for the hours of labor she'd been forced to endure to bring him into the world. She'd cooked and washed and cleaned and demanded love as payment. Legally, she was culpable, but she'd been Ma. She'd comforted him when he hurt, talked to him, laughed, given him hope. She'd done terrible things, but, at the same time, she'd been his mother. She'd taught him a sense of duty and loyalty to family and to society. She'd been his Mom. Law, justice be fucked!

The End

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